Williams

Mr. Williams, I'm sad and was wondering if you would sit with me for a moment. No, I don't want you to try and make me laugh. I just want you to sit on this balcony with me and wonder why there are flamingos here and know that I am sad also.

I am still amazed that I am here. I have never wanted to come to California. My husband is here on business, and asked me to join him. You see, our baby died in April, and I drove the eleven hours here because I was desperate not to be left alone in my head. I didn't want our other two children to be lost in my head with me. I wanted to reconnect with the man I love after a loss that tore us into people we didn't know.

I was standing in a Celtics tourist shop, when the Scott said he texted his wife that you had died. He laughed and said his wife responded by asking his pant size. I almost fell to my knees. You can't be dead. You just can't.

I have hardly cried since my heart was ripped out three months ago. I was reminded that I am human and so very small. Your story though, it brought a burning to my eyes. I quickly shuffled through the tartans to try and hide my grief for you, all the while damning my decision to leave my medicine at home.

You can't be dead and neither can he. You, Sir, have touched my heart in very vulnerable places. Your joy was always overshadowed by a grief in your eyes. I have always wanted to just sit by you. Just to sit. Not for Robin Williams the celebrity, but for Robin Williams, the man who bared his soul to the world and was dismissed. I, sir, saw your soul. It was a beautiful one. Not because of your gift for comic relief, but your desperation for humanity. I saw you behind every joke and all the makeup. I saw you and I saw myself.

I am so, so deeply sorry that it hurt that bad. I come to you with tears streaming down my face. I am so sorry it hurt. It hurts in ways you didn't know it could. You can smell and taste your grief over everything. I understand. I know that you told yourself to be strong for your spouse and children. I know that sometimes that just isn't the answer. I am so sorry it hurts so bad.

But I need to tell you that I am angry at you. I'm angry that you gave up. I'm angry that I am sitting an an island, aching to hold my son and now you. I would have hugged you and told you to let it out. I would have told you that I feel alone also, but that it can and will get better. I am personally hurt that you are gone.